


Sleep wreaked

by katiebuttercup



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, F/M, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7593073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebuttercup/pseuds/katiebuttercup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They may be immortal but they still hit that wall</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep wreaked

Disclaimer: I own nothing 

America leans heavily against the wall as the door chime reverbrates through England's suite. While he waits he pushes his glasses further up his nose, grimacing at the touch of sweat beneath the rims. Exhaustion and heat weren't the best mix and even America who was accustomed to the weather was suffering--but then again it could be the hours he has spent in the conference room discussing and arguing and bitching and discussing some more. 

And now he was in for another six hours of meaningless talk. No one was going to give and he was probably going to leave tonight even more pissed off. 

Frowning, America levered himself off the wall with his shoulder and pressed the bell once more. It was unlike England to leave someone waiting, even rarer that she was late- that was much more France's style. 

A sliver of uncertainty unfurls in America's stomach. When they had broken up the meeting before lunch England has assured him she would meet him, and not only had she not shown up for the meeting she now wasn't answering her door. America allows a certain amount of irritation to settle on his shoulders. England was forever picking at him about his tardiness and here she was ignoring him. It was just an extra stress on top of his already stress filled day. He expected it from his enemies but England? Couldn't he rely on her of all people?

When it was clear the bell want going to get a reaction America went for the door knob. It twisted easily in his hand and America swallows the sense of guilt at trespassing as he steps over the threshold. 

The living area is identical to his and his gaze passes over the familiar surroundings quickly, noting England's jacket and laptop still on the table next to the large bunch of flowers. He crosses the room in front of the television and the tension he carried within him since he was forced (okay so France had simply made a suggestion) to find out what was keeping England. France probably preferred America taking the brunt of England's infamous temper when she wakes up, eases. 

England is curled up on the sofa, legs furled underneath her, tiny hands nestled beneath her chin like a cat in front of the fire on a cold day. America could sit next to her and fit easily without disturbing her. 

America files the image away before the lump in his throat threatens to choke him. Mostly he can fit England into safe categories of Friend and ally. But sometimes, England threatens to break out of his safe space into something much more personal. And America can't live with the hope that rears its ugly head.

America is a country that thrives on hope, but this...well America freely admits he's not ready to open that can of worms. Maybe in another two hundred years he'll inch the lid back and peek but right now he can't. He's got enough keeping him up an night. 

England made being a super power seem a lot more fun and glamorous then the reality. In truth it was paper work and walking a tight rope and not punching Russia in the throat everytime he walked through the door. 

America realises he's staring but he can't tear his eyes away. Looking at England is painful-like looking at the lunar eclipse. Safe only through specialist glasses. Her face softened with sleep, her angles smoothed out England looks touchable, and America's fingers flex with a desire he has learned not to indulge. 

The sound of his ring tone forces him back to reality-away from the shine of England's hair that is swept away from her neck, covering half her face and most of the brocade of the couch-she's got a lot of hair-he hasn't seen her hair so long since he was a colony and it was usually contained in neat bun. It'll be a mess when she wakes up.

"Hello?"

"Amerique? Have you found Angleterre?"

A brief, fleeting thought weasles through the warmth that has settled over him in England's presence. Has France ever seen England like this?

America pushes the jealousy away with the ease of long experience. England has lived a long life. He doesn't have any right to feel jealous of time that was never his. 

"Yeah, she's asleep"

France chuckes, he sounds tired, they're all tired nowadays. "I am calling to report that Germany has given us a reprieve for being good boys and girls in your absence and not killing each other. We will reconvene tomorrow at two."

The relief is almost crippling, A day and a half of reprive is more than America could have hoped for. 

"Thanks France, I'll write England a note so she doesn't freak out." 

"Good idea. I suggest you take a leaf out of Angleterre's book and get some rest," France says. 

Sleep sounds like the best idea ever. He hangs up with France with a promise to hang out later. Even though tiredness tugs at him like weights America finds himself reluctant to leave. It would be easy to sit next to England on the couch, to lean against the cushions and succumb to sleep with her. 

Instead he resolutely hunts around for spare paper-finds an empty envelope and biro and writes carefully France's note then props it against the unlit candle on the table so she will see it when she wakes. And because he is weak he lets his fingers brush the crown of England's head, feeling her nestle deeper into the couch at his touch. 

Bite size chunks of feelings are all he can deal with. The image of a rumpled, sleeping imperfect England is a treasure he will jealously guard. 

America stands, and leaves with his glimpse behind the curtain safely nestled in his heart, banking that tiny spark of hope.


End file.
